


The Illusionist

by e_p_hart



Category: Original Work
Genre: Circus, F/M, Lynching, Magic-Users, Race
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-13
Updated: 2015-01-13
Packaged: 2018-03-07 09:06:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3169268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/e_p_hart/pseuds/e_p_hart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These same adoring blank faces<br/>Would not hesitate to spit upon him in the street;<br/>But here, they bow to him, they pay fealty to<br/>Him, the King of Illusions, the Master of Shadows;<br/>Whether from Africa or not, this specimen<br/>Is not to be missed, they whisper, and rush<br/>To be the first in line, to see this anomaly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Illusionist

**I.**

After the show,  
Walking quietly back to his trailer, the Illusionist.  
Does he deign  
To greet the lowly stage hands  
Who wave as they pass?  
Beware: the Illusionist lies, can  
In Thought, Word, and Deed.  
But, ho! the ringleader approaches:  
Mousy Duncan, stops him in his tracks.  
“Go back,” says he, and the Illusionist  
Protests, “You promised!” but with  
No use. About our character goes,  
To a platform by the tent-flap path.

  
Lit by spotlights, the Illusionist waves his magic hands.  
The adults stop, to stare, and whisper.  
The children prance and clap their hands.  
Butterflies of flame that do not burn but softly kiss;  
Fireworks that drape like jewelry across the sky;  
A wave of seawater that crashes among them,  
No more substantial than wind or breath.  
All these wonders, and more besides,  
The Illusionist grants them, these  
Commoners bereft of Imagination.  
But with a bow, he takes his leave,  
And the echoes of cheers and applause  
Chase the Illusionist back into his trailer.

  
He shuts the door, leans against it briefly.  
Off comes his cape, the hat, the shoes;  
Off comes the makeup, the glitter;  
Off comes the masquerade, and the Illusionist  
Is no more, merely Numair, poor man,  
Exhausted beyond all thought.  
Lights out, and a more comfortable sleep  
Would be found in Tartarus’ stagnant halls.

When he awakes, Nimair flicks his fingers.  
Ah! there she is, fair princess, beautiful queen.  
He had, once, long ago, met a radiant lady, who,  
Most kindly, had helped him up, bade him quiet his tears,  
And then disappeared. Helen, he named her,  
Hearing once of the fabled Helen of Troy,  
The most beautiful woman in the world,  
But surely even the true Helen could not  
Hope to measure even a little against his own vision.  
Golden hair, skin white and smooth and fragrant,  
Blue eyes that are kind, most of all kind,  
A voice that echoes with the strains of a  
Thousand violins, a forest full of nightingales,  
A choir of angels, and more;  
Could Helen of Troy, having but seen  
This image of perfect, have but at once  
Been humbled, ashamed that she dared to  
Call herself the fairest, when a creature  
Such as this graced the world with her presence?  
No mere mortal she; and best of all her charms,  
Her beauty, she loved Numair, and he alone.  
She did not care that other scorned him  
For his status, his dark skin, his speech  
And manner; for her, it was enough that  
He be Numair.  
This creature Numair calls up, and she bends  
At once, most tenderly, and asks what can  
Be bothering him. He smiles at her, and replies,  
”Nothing, now that you are here.”

But short lived their happiness was, for as she  
Drew breath to answer, who should arrive but  
Duncan, pounding on the door.  
“We’ve got to go,” he shouts most urgently.  
“We were here for many nights,” Numair  
Replies, puzzled. “What happened?”  
“They don’t like that you’re a darkie,”  
Duncan whispers. “We’re moving on.  
Get your things together.”

  
Angry now, Numair strides around his trailer, sparks  
Accidentally flying from his fingertips, half-imagined  
Ghosts rising out to comfort him. But no comfort  
for Numair, but not Numair, he is the Illusionist,  
The Great Umberto, master of illusion, of shadows,  
One of the darkness, come from the far reaches of Africa.  
Or so Duncan announces him. The Illusionist  
Does not believe it. The memory of his dear  
Helen is much too clear, a starched handkerchief, clean and  
Soft against his scraped knee, much too solid, her kind  
And thoughtful words too often unused, to be anything  
But a truth. It happened. And this Helen who he  
Conjured up now, this was the same, but made into  
Utter perfection, unchanging, never disappearing.  
But she disappears now as he throws on his cape  
And slams open the door, a stormy expression  
Captive across his face. The stage hands are  
Working now, annoyed but not with him,  
For they do understand that it is not his own fault;  
If only others agreed.

They drive, the caravan, all night,  
Into a town that rushes with the  
Waves and spray of a river.  
The Illusionist conjures up, for  
His fellow performers, a great fire by  
Which they warm their hands, swearing they  
Can really feel the flames, smell the smoke.  
He hangs back, content to do this one  
Gift for his friends, some little apology to  
Make up for their sudden flight. He shuts  
His eyes against the soft crackle of the fire,  
And wills. The fire dies down slowly,  
And each performer goes their separate way.  
Numair slinks to his own bed, ashamed and  
Tired. Helen appears to him, places cool  
Tender fingers against his cheek, but in  
The end, he knows, she will go.  
They all go.

* * *

 

**II.**

This is what he lives for:  
The roar, the scent of approval  
From a screaming audience,  
And an act where everything goes  
Exactly right. Sweat trickling  
Like rain across his forehead,  
This knowledge, his alone:  
His talents bring joy, release, escape,  
And his alone. These same adoring blank faces  
Would not hesitate to spit upon him in the street;  
But here, they bow to him, they pay fealty to  
Him, the King of Illusions, the Master of Shadows;  
Whether from Africa or not, this specimen  
Is not to be missed, they whisper, and rush  
To be the first in line, to see this anomaly.  
Yes, would he but beg a humble answer from them  
Beneath by Apollo’s stern gaze, they would  
Strike him down, not to hold back their  
Fury, their rage. Laughter does not come easily  
To these, who call him barbarian, and  
Animal, and inferior.  
But for now, this is what is:  
Their approval, their dependence on him,  
For this time. This is his secret,  
This is what lights his heart in the gripping  
Cold death of Winter, when cruelty and ignorance  
Imprisons him: he recalls these acts,  
And remembers.

 

* * *

 

**III.**

But now, oh, now!  
He remembers, and wracks his brain  
For a clue. What went wrong? Riding  
The high of the performance, the Illusionist  
Conjures up Helen, to complete his happiness  
Of the evening. The camp of performers are  
Used to Helen, and do not give them a second  
Glance when Numair and Helen stroll across  
The dew-tipped lawns, hand in hand.  
Approaching the river, Numair produces flowers  
Of stars for her, but they pale beside her radiance,  
And he tells her so. Her blush is perfect.  
But-- a whistle, a shout! Oh, what  
Can this be, these mongrels who tear into his flesh,  
Screaming, what are they screaming?  
”Get away from her, you freak!”  
Ahh, this is unbearable cruelty,  
Helen standing, confused, among the crowd  
Of men who have arrived to save her.  
“Listen to me!” Numair cries,  
But they do not listen. They drag him away.  
In desperation, he makes gun shots that scare them,  
Loosening their grip on his arms, and he can escape,  
But there are five of him now, each running  
In an opposite direction, yes,  
They cannot possibly choose the real one.  
Surely Duncan will understand, explain to them.  
Numair explains his case to the silent ringleader,  
Who shakes his head, refuses to hear any more.  
“You’ll go on trial,” he says, and hands Numair  
Over to the angry mob of men.  
Into the jail goes Numair, and he doesn’t dare  
To even invite Helen into being, for fear  
That it might incite the mob to greater wrath.

It is twelve against the dealer.  
The judge on his pedestal, black robes  
Silent and uncaring; the jury complacent,  
His defense disbelieving of his own eyes:  
“There are no such things as illusions. They’re  
Not real.” Which, Numair protests, is exactly his point!  
Crippled from the start. It is no surprise  
The jury returns ten minutes after leaving with  
An overwhelming majority of a strident accusation:  
“Guilty!”  
The punishment is to dance the air, a necklace of  
Rope about his neck. Duncan and the rest of the  
Performers leave without trying to stop this,  
This madness. Numair paces his tiny cell,  
Hopelessly searching for any chance of escape.  
There is none. Dead end.

And so comes the main event,  
The Illusionists’ greatest and last performance.  
He mounts the stairs fearlessly, head held high,  
Unresponsive to the hate about him.  
A thought at the back of his mind,  
And before he can control himself,  
There she stands, shining in the beautiful  
Afternoon sunlight like nothing earthly.  
The crowd murmurs, confused,  
But there is no way to stop this,  
This madness. The executioner places  
The rope about his neck, and Numair takes Helen’s hand.  
She is here, beside him, smiling and ignorant.  
Whatever power brought her from the world of shadows,  
Whatever power he still, as yet, possess,  
Will spare her any pain. Was she ever real?  
Can she feel? Or will she disappear forever  
When--

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in undergrad because I was mentioning to my roommate that I wanted to write more diverse characters, and this crawled out. Um. So. Yeah.


End file.
